by Mark Clapham
Then he was gone, the portal closing behind him. Anvindr found himself moving again, and his chainsword swept through empty space.
Pranix scrabbled towards the patch of floor where Huron had been, whispering ‘no’ to himself under his breath.
Anvindr watched him for a while.
A few minutes later, Tormodr ran into the chamber. He seemed to have lost most of his power armour, and his tattooed torso was covered in cuts.
He paused in the doorway, staring at everything. Then he saw Anvindr.
‘The Red Corsairs have gone. Vanished,’ said Tormodr. ‘Just as I had them where I wanted them, too.’
Anvindr laughed, then he remembered Gulbrandr, and Sindri, and his laugh faded.
He could still feel a hint of the power within him. If Huron could open a portal, perhaps Anvindr could bring back…
No. Like Liulfr, they had earned their rest.
Anvindr, it seemed, would see another winter after all. That was just his wyrd. ‘Who survives?’ he asked.
‘A dozen or so of our brothers, though many are badly wounded,’ said Tormodr. ‘A handful of mortals. The system governor survives. Young Hoenir fell.’ Tormodr looked around the chamber, his eyes resting briefly on Gulbrandr’s body, then moving away. ‘Where is Sindri?’
‘That is an account for later,’ said Anvindr.
‘Indeed. Can you open a portal back to Threshold?’ asked Pranix. The inquisitor had regained his composure, although there was a new twitch beneath one of his eyes. He was limping, trying to hold himself up on one half of his staff.
‘No, my lord inquisitor,’ said Anvindr. ‘But I believe there is already…’
He reached up, and one of the portals floating by drifted downwards, stopping at floor level. Anvindr gestured again, and it opened up to the size of a Space Marine.
‘Let’s gather the others and go,’ said Pranix. ‘We don’t know how long this will remain open.’
‘Don’t you want to stay here, inquisitor?’ asked Anvindr. ‘Plunder this place’s secrets for the benefit of the Inquisition?’
Pranix blinked.
‘Captain Godrichsson, the powers in this place are unholy and heretical,’ snapped Pranix. ‘I should have you and any other surviving Space Wolves purged for even coming into contact with it. You especially, having some residual contact with such witchcraft.’
Anvindr looked down at the inquisitor, this mortal who he had hated so long, still twisted up in his schemes and hatreds.
Then he laughed, and this time nothing could stop him.
Twenty-Nine
If Huron Blackheart’s flight from Exultance could be considered a defeat for the Red Corsairs, it seemed far from a victory to the loyalists of the Imperium.
A whole world, Hacasta, was gone, and with it the Burning Monks and many other prominent representatives of the Ecclesiarchy, tearing the spiritual heart from the system.
Another world, Kerresh, was blighted by a dying sun and barely habitable, the centre of industrial activity within the Hollow Worlds left utterly devastated.
Millions had died, not just on Hacasta and Kerresh, but across all the worlds where the Red Corsairs had invaded. Of those who survived, many once-loyal subjects of the Emperor had either accepted the taint of Chaos into their souls or been corrupted by the very presence of such heresy. Further millions would need to be purged to clear those worlds of all dark influence.
Inquisitor Pranix tasked surviving forces of the Lastrati Guard and Jandarme with undertaking the purge that was required, under the highest Inquisitorial authority. He then ordered specific elements within those forces to watch their comrades for signs of heresy themselves, and to show no mercy if they became tainted with the very heresy they had been ordered to stamp out.
As for the Red Corsairs themselves, defeat of such an enemy’s objectives was not enough, either for the inquisitor or the Space Wolves. Even with the Red Corsairs having fled the system, their legacy remained. Not just in the taint of heresy they had inflicted upon the Lastrati, the souls lost to them, but written into the geography of the Hollow Worlds, the system itself left changed forever.
The Archways created by Huron’s realignment of the Orrery remained. Although Exultance was once more inaccessible, the once-lost world of Threshold was now part of the system again, and was the only link between Ressial, Trincul and the worlds on the Hellward side of the system.
Those few survivors on Kerresh who had not already fled to Plini relocated to Threshold, and Lord Dumas Cheng was considering forced population transfers from Laghast to turn Threshold into the Hollow Worlds’ new industrial hub. As Kerresh became a cold, barren wasteland, only crossed when necessary and with elaborate precautions against the environment, Threshold was returning to life.
From a balcony on one wing of the Gatehouse, Lord Dumas Cheng looked out across the ruins of the Onyx Palace, home for an Emperor who would never visit, now reduced to rubble. Some of its outer walls remained intact, jagged and uneven, while where rooftops had been torn away once-opulent interiors were now exposed to the elements, stained and rotting.
Cheng sat alone, parchment in his hands. When he had become system governor of the Hollow Worlds, it was a given that the system stood alone, that it was secure from many of the terrors that plagued the universe. For many millennia the Hollow Worlds had been a virtually closed system, providing all that was asked of them in tithes and troops to the Imperium at large, but requiring little in return. The Lastrati had been proud, independent but dependable.
Now that independence was gone. Resources were needed, and a vast influx of newcomers to repopulate the system. It would take much to rebuild the Hollow Worlds, and the Lastrati could not do it alone.
So, overlooking the ruins of the Onyx Palace, Cheng took pen and parchment and began to draft a request, to be sealed and transmitted to the highest authorities in the bureaucracy in this part of the Imperium, to superiors no system governor of the Hollow Worlds had seen fit to contact in endless generations, requesting assistance.
As he wrote, he was aware that he was very possibly writing his own death warrant. The High Lords of Terra and their local representatives did not tolerate failure, whatever the circumstances, and until reconstruction and repopulation were at least partially complete the Hollow Worlds would not meet any of its tithes. Cheng would be responsible for this failure, and his request for aid was an admission of such.
He would doubtless be purged, the authorities imposing another system governor, who would in turn bring with him an army of lackeys and bureaucrats to stamp their own mark on the Hollow Worlds, sweeping away the previous regime and deleting them from the histories, denouncing Cheng’s failures.
When he had finished writing, Cheng melted a patch of wax onto the parchment, and raised his stamp of office. He paused for a second. Was it worth it, to ask for aid? To risk bringing brutal outsiders into the Hollow Worlds, to admit defeat and potentially end his life executed as a traitor? Would it not be better for the Hollow Worlds to go on alone, under the old regime, even if it meant slow decline?
No, thought Cheng, that too was impossible, and more shameful than any repudiation. They were subjects of the Emperor, and whatever needed to be done to restore the Hollow Worlds so they could serve the Emperor once more, that was worth the cost.
Who knew, he thought; the wheels of communication and bureaucracy ran painfully slow and he was already an old man. By the time his message was received, processed, a reply formulated and the response sent, Cheng might be dead. They could put his corpse on trial as they began reconstruction.
Cheng smiled at the thought. Then he brought down the stamp with a thud.
The patient was unnamed, and carefully kept away from anyone who might be able to identify him. Wrapped in bandages and unable to speak or move, violet eyes were his only distinguishing features. In the weeks followi
ng the departure of the Red Corsairs from the Hollow Worlds, the patient was moved from infirmary to infirmary and world to world, eventually settling in a familiar hospital on an island on the outer world of Laghast. Beneath his bandages, the patient waited.
It was there, in the quiet hospital out in the archipelago, that the patient had a visitor. The visitor walked with a limp, and stood in the doorway of the patient’s room leaning on a walking stick made from the broken half of an ornate staff. He had abandoned his robes and armour in favour of what looked like, from a distance, one of the drab uniforms of a Ministorum clerk, but which closer inspection would reveal was made from the finest fabrics, immaculately tailored.
The visitor closed the door behind him, and pulled up a chair to sit by the patient’s bed. The patient watched him warily.
‘Hello, Kretschman,’ said Inquisitor Pranix, leaning his stick against the side of Kretschman’s metal bed. ‘Although I probably shouldn’t use that name. Due to your disgrace your name has been stricken from the records of your regiment. Officially you’re not just dead, you never actually existed. Makes me wonder why I bothered faking your death.’
Kretschman tried to convey maximum contempt with his gaze alone. What little Kretschman had left of himself after Anto invaded his mind – his name, his honour – had been stripped away by Pranix.
The corner of Pranix’s mouth twisted in a slight grin.
‘Don’t be like that, Vetera… Well, not veteran sergeant any more now you’ve been posthumously stripped of your rank, I suppose, so I guess that makes you just plain Kretschman,’ he said. ‘What was I saying? Yes, don’t be like that, Kretschman. It could be worse, especially if anyone other than I ever found out you were alive. Sergeant Badya told quite a few of the Space Wolves about the strange Cadian helping the sorcerer to kill the inquisitor with his psychic powers. Fortunately it was easy enough to spirit off your “remains” as contaminated material touched by the Ruinous Powers. The Space Wolves were furious, as they wanted to impale your corpse on a spike, but then the Space Wolves are always furious about something, aren’t they?’
Kretschman felt resignation sink over him. There was nothing he could do to avoid his fate now.
Pranix leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial.
‘But you and I know that you were never consciously a traitor, don’t we, Kretschman?’ the inquisitor whispered. ‘That was your brilliance as a spy in our midst – you never knew you were one, and that connection the sorcerer planted in your mind was buried so deep, even I couldn’t detect it. The irony is, as far as you were concerned your loyalty never wavered, did it?’
Kretschman wanted to nod his head, but couldn’t, instead staring in desperate affirmation at Pranix, to try to convey that this was true, yes, he had always been loyal.
Pranix sat back in his chair, which creaked under his weight.
‘Don’t think for a second I’ve saved you because you’re some innocent soul,’ snapped Pranix. ‘That means nothing to me – I’ve seen many a perfect innocent to their death, and never regretted it. No, you’re alive because you may still have your uses. That connection you had, I want to find out how it was done, and how it evaded my detection for so long. I also want to see if I can use it, and you, against these traitors and others like them. Would you like that, Kretschman?’
Kretschman’s eyes implored Pranix that yes, he would.
‘I thought so,’ said Pranix rising to his feet. ‘Not that you have a choice. And don’t consider this a total reprieve. If you prove to still be dangerous I’ll have you put down. And if it’s easier to dissect you to discover what was done to you, I’ll do that. But you never know, you might actually live to redeem yourself.’
Pranix walked to the door, leaning on his stick once more.
‘You will be transported off-world within a few weeks to complete your recovery, so in the meantime concentrate on getting better and, should you regain your speech, keep your mouth shut,’ said Pranix, opening the door and glancing back.
‘Whatever comes next, you’re going to need your strength.’
Then he was gone, leaving Kretschman to listen to the sound of his walking stick clacking down the corridor.
‘What do you see, Rotaka?’
The question came as a surprise, although Rotaka had not known what to expect when summoned to the Tyrant’s quarters on the Might of Huron. They had been in the void for what seemed like many weeks, although knowing the vagaries of the void, it could have just been days. Time had limited meaning there.
‘My lord?’ asked Rotaka.
‘It was a simple question, Rotaka,’ repeated Huron Blackheart, emerging from the shadows. ‘What do you see?’
‘I see you, my lord,’ said Rotaka. ‘My master.’
Blackheart looked down at Rotaka, his insane eyes glowering. Rotaka hadn’t been this close to the Tyrant since Exultance, and there was a sharpness to that gaze that had seemed lost for so much of the campaign in the Hollow Worlds. While not possessing the terrible power he had taken control of on Exultance, the Tyrant no longer obviously bore the signs of daemonic infection. There was a new energy to Huron, a strength of purpose. A cruel smile pulled at the corner of his lipless mouth, back teeth visible through one of the wounds in the grey skin of his cheek.
‘But you see more than others, don’t you, Rotaka?’ said Huron. ‘Only lately did I discover that you drank from the Cup of Blessings on the eve of our last campaign. Was that when it started, Rotaka? I saw you make your choice on Threshold, I saw that your eyes looked at me on levels those around you could not.’
Huron was circling him now, almost whispering in his hoarse, grating voice. Rotaka didn’t answer any of Huron’s questions; he could tell the Tyrant hadn’t finished yet.
‘You saw, didn’t you?’ hissed Huron, resting one blade of the Tyrant’s Claw on Rotaka’s shoulder as he paused there, almost speaking into Rotaka’s ear. ‘That I was inflicted, that a daemonic presence was threatening to overcome me, to use me as a mere conduit to force its way through from the warp.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Rotaka. There seemed no point in lying.
Huron walked around to face Rotaka once more.
‘So, I ask you again,’ Huron said. ‘What do you see? And this time, answer me fully.’
Rotaka looked at Huron. He had no idea why the previous visions had struck him when they did, but even between those sights, he had found himself seized by an unrest when looking at Huron Blackheart, the same sensation he had always felt when looking at that semi-visible familiar the Tyrant kept with him.
So now he looked, and opened his senses, seeing if any such instinct began to affect him.
He saw nothing. For many, the sight of Huron Blackheart would be disturbing enough – the dead flesh, the augmentations, those eyes. But now, Rotaka saw him as he always had, as his master, as Lufgt Huron. All previous doubts and uncertainties had gone from his mind.
‘I see nothing aside from my master,’ said Rotaka. ‘No affliction or distortion of the senses, just my lord and master.’
‘You have always served me with devotion, Rotaka,’ said Huron. ‘So I will speak to you truthfully. You are correct. Although I did not gain the power I sought on Exultance, the daemonic infection that gripped me has been forced into abeyance, at least for the moment. If I ascend to daemonhood, it will be on my own terms.’
‘I am glad, my lord,’ said Rotaka with a slight bow of the head. And he was.
‘Would you be so glad if you knew the price of this physical presence, Rotaka?’ spat Huron. ‘What is the price of being fully engaged with reality, if not pain?’
He raised the Tyrant’s Claw, scything the air with its blades.
‘My existence is wracked with pain beyond imagining, Rotaka,’ said the Tyrant. ‘Unending pain.’
‘For that, I am truly sorry, my lord,’ said Rotaka,
and that statement was also true, even if he was uncertain why Huron Blackheart would seek to share so much information.
‘You speak the truth!’ said Huron, appraising Rotaka as seriously as he had demanded Rotaka appraise him. ‘Loyal, loyal Rotaka, your soul truly bleeds for me, doesn’t it?’
Rotaka returned his gaze.
‘You are my leader, my lord,’ said Rotaka. ‘I have always followed loyally and always will. Your pain is my pain.’
‘Such loyalty,’ said Huron. ‘Such sympathy.’
Rotaka felt a swell of pride at Huron’s approval.
Then he felt the something go through his neck.
Huron Blackheart had struck him with one blade of the Tyrant’s Claw, piercing Rotaka’s throat.
‘Even without the powers granted to you by that cup, you see me as no others do,’ hissed Huron, eyes wide with madness. ‘And it will not stand. You see a Chapter Master long dead, not Huron Blackheart. I will not be constrained by your worship or your empathy, Rotaka. I am Huron Blackheart, and I will rule through fear alone. No one is allowed to know me as you presume to do.’
Huron jerked the blade sideways, taking out half of Rotaka’s neck.
Rotaka fell to the floor, dead.
Huron Blackheart left the corpse where it lay, and walked over to his throne. He sank into it, his body wracked with agony. While the daemonic presence had been driven away, at least for now, Huron’s existence was still a tenuous one dependent on technology, sorcery and his own strength of will. To keep living was more effort than his Red Corsairs could ever be allowed to know.
Huron dismissed such thoughts. Pain was nothing; he had new purpose now, and he would live until all his conquests were complete. Straightening in his throne, he pressed a vox-button on one arm.
‘My lord?’ came Garreon’s voice.
‘I have a fresh corpse for you, Corpsemaster,’ said Huron. ‘Send your servitors to gather it from my quarters. Strip out the organs to heal our wounded.’
